One Awesome Trip, We Should Do The Same Next Year
by SeaTurtleWaves
Summary: Henry asks Shawn to clean out the attic, but since when can Shawn ever do something simply and completely drama free? A little whump, a little fluff and alot of Shawn!
1. This Would Be So Much Better with a Sled

"Shawn, get up!"  
"5 more minutes dad...I can brush my teeth tomorrow.."  
"Shawn that's disgusting, now get up!" Henry punctuated this with a kick to the couch in his living room that currently housed his sleeping 30 year old son.

Shawn blinked muzzily up at his father, trying to clear his blurry vision.

"Dad? Whatcha doin in myyy" yawn "-y room? And what shirt are you wearing? That thing is hideous, what did you skin a yak and dye it orange?"  
"Shawn, for the last time, GET. UP! You are in my living room, it's 6 am and you need to start on the attic and I have to go. It's already later than I wanted to leave. Now up!"

Shawn shifted himself sleepily on the couch, now remembering that he had decided to sleep over last night after a few beers and the baseball game. He also remembered his dad saying something about cleaning out the attic, but nothing about doing it before the crack of dawn, I mean even the undead could probably still be roaming at this early hour.

"Dad, why do I have to get up so early? I can do it later at a reasonable hour, preferably after noon. You know my hair isn't perky until at least 12:30."

Henry reached down and yanked the pillow from under Shawn's head and watched in satisfaction as it thumped down onto the couch cushion.

"I am leaving to go fishing, you are going to get up right now and start on the attic. I want it done by the time I get back and it's going to take you all day to do it."

Henry gathered his tackle box and keys to his truck and slid his hat onto his bald head. He opened the door to step out, but stopped to address Shawn one last time before leaving.

"I will be back around 5:30 and we can grill up the fish I catch, I want those boxes cleared out, sorted and all of your junk  
gone. You hear me Shawn?! So, get your lazy ass up and get to work!" And with that, his old man ended his statement with the door slamming shut behind him.

Shawn lay on the couch, slowly blinking and listened as his dad's truck roared away, headed towards the marina.

* * *

Shawn balanced one last box on top of the other two, before hefting them into his arms. He didn't want to spend the entire day lugging the boxes downstairs one by one. He still had to sort through them and do something with the stuff. Maybe if he just rearranged the boxes in the garage his dad wouldn't notice.

Man, that last box was heavy, some of the trophies from his childhood were on top and they made the box awkward to close completely. This made it harder to see where he was going. Shawn, yawned deeply as he started down the narrow attic stairs, his mind and body still sleepy from the lack of sleep.

As his tired mind slowly processed, as he stepped down on the third stair, his foot landed awkwardly, harshly twisting his ankle, sending pain ricocheting up his leg and pitching him headfirst down the steep stairs. He tumbled, unable to catch himself due to the heavy boxes which slid from his grasp and rolled down the staircase alongside his body. His foot caught beneath him and took the brunt of each step, the pain growing farther up his leg, until he hit the bottom. Before he could try to catch his breath, a sharp pain caught his temple and he slumped unconscious.


	2. Not All Who Drift Are Lost

Henry relaxed in his boat; he checked his watch, it was only 8:30. He figured he probably shouldn't start drinking his beers just yet since it was still early. He reeled his line in, checked that the bait was still attached and re-cast.

He savored the quiet out on the water of the bay. He could hear some birds, and some far off motors, but he was far away from people and cell phones and all the noise of the city. Henry enjoyed the sound of small waves slapping at the side of his motor boat where it sat anchored. The ocean was a calm blue with a slight gray tint that spoke of possible rain tonight, but he should be able to get home and grill up the fish before any weather hit.

Fishing for Henry was more about the relaxation than it was about the sport. Sure he did it partly because he enjoyed the masculine feel of having provided his own meal and the satisfaction that filled his belly more fully with the knowledge of having put in hard effort before enjoying the food. He also enjoyed the time that he could spend by himself.

When he was on the force, it was a way to put the horrors of the job behind him and just enjoy the mechanics of casting and reeling and baiting. It was a way to look around and take in the pure beauty that nature provided, a difference from the ugliness of human nature and the results of their greed, anger and jealousy.

As the years passed, it became a solace and a way of escaping Madeline and their countless fights, even though it always made her more angry because she felt he was running away instead of confronting their problems head on. Like she could talk about running away, he wasn't the one that left. She was the one that left him and the house and Shawn behind while she went off to further her career.

And Shawn, being out on his boat got him away from his son as well. His son that was always causing trouble or defying his parents in some way. It was nice to be able to leave his family and job behind and just go out and toss back a few beers while reeling in some fish.

Not to say that Henry didn't enjoy some company at times. He had brought different PD buddies out before, Captain Conners, Carlton Lassiter, hell, he even brought his son out a few times. Henry thought having a son, he would be able to enjoy father and son activities, and since Henry loved fishing, he hoped to be able to share that also with his son. But Shawn absolutely had to do the opposite of what was expected of him.

When he was younger he was an attentive student, watching in awe as Henry showed him how it all worked, how the line fit in the rod and all of that. Although the first time Henry showed him how to hook a worm, Shawn cried, horrified that "Slimey" had just been killed. Of course he was only 4 at the time, but Henry should have known what was to come.

When Shawn was 5 and Henry was getting the boat ready to go out, he turned to pick up the cooler and next thing he knew Shawn had fallen off the dock and into the murky water at the edge. Henry, heart pounding, had to jump in and save his flailing, drowning son. By the time he had gotten them both back onto the dock, Shawn was shivering, chilled from the cold water and sniffling and miserable. Henry soon discovered his keys had been lost somewhere in the depths after jumping in the water. That may have only been the first, but was not the last of many aborted fishing trips between the two of them.

The few times Henry was able to get Shawn up and safely into the boat and out onto the water, he then had to deal with a lot of complaining on Shawn's part. He hated getting up early, he hated the smell of fish, he thought it was cruel to hook the worms, he never stopped talking, he always tangled his line, he was hungry, he was tired, he was hot, he was cold... it was never the relaxing father-son experience Henry was hoping for.

Shawn never took the time to pay attention to doing it the right way, no matter how many times Henry told him, Shawn never had the patience to wait for the fish to come to his line, he always yanked it too soon because he was far too impatient to just sit unmoving for any amount of time. Henry relished in the results from the effort and patience put into spending the whole day fishing, knowing which spots to pick at the right time, moving the boat further along the shoreline during the cooler hours. Shawn though, he never could put forth the effort needed and it irked Henry to no end.

After awhile, he gave up on the trips around the time when Shawn was a teenager and angry at the world and his parents and especially his father. It didn't help that one of the last times they ever went out together, Shawn was sullen and especially petulant and as the day wore on, got more and more annoying, deliberately shifting and humming and knocking around the boat until all manner of wildlife was scared off for 5 miles in all directions.

Henry sick of him, shouted at him to shut up and directed him to pull up the anchor so that they could perhaps try another spot before giving up. He wasn't going to waste the whole day because he son wouldn't cooperate. After the anchor was up, Henry threw the motor into gear and tossed the throttle more than he meant to in his anger, and the small boat jumped forward. Henry,secure in the seat, was fine, but Shawn had not gotten seated and when Henry drove the boat forward, the quick and unexpected force caused Shawn to lose his balance and get knocked off his feet.

When Henry heard the heavy thud of his son getting slammed onto the bottom of the boat, he turned and caught sight of Shawn and saw the blood smeared at the cut along his brow where he clipped it against the side of the boat in his fall. Shawn angrily accused him of doing it on purpose and as they set off towards home, cradled his sprained wrist, holding ice to his head, while Henry guiltily drove the boat back to the docks. Shawn ended up with 3 stitches and a wrap around his wrist and Henry decided that fishing was not something he and his son would ever bond over.

Henry was broken out of his thoughts by a tug on his line, by the time he reeled it back in though, the fish had slipped off,  
taking the bait with it. After re-baiting his hook and tossing it back in the water, Henry scooped an icy beer up and snapped the top open with one hand, taking a long draught of it. He leaned back in his seat and glanced up at the puffy white clouds as they skittered across the sky. It really was a perfect day to be out.

Henry thought about Shawn cleaning the attic and hoped that he had gotten up instead of going back to sleep after he left. It was going to take him all day to carry out the boxes and clean up all that junk up there. And when he got back he better not find an even bigger mess, and he was going to kill Shawn if he stacked the boxes in the garage instead of actually dealing with them! But he would deal with that this evening, this day was his to relax and he was going to stay out here until sun down.

* * *

Apologies if any of the fishing or boat facts are wrong, I did some research, so I hope it doesn't sound wildly nonfactual and incorrect! Please let me know if it is, so I can fix it. Sorry if you are disappointed at the lack of Shawn, but I did sneak him in, even a little taste of whump! ;) So, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Scattering Is For the Birds!

Shawn started to slowly awaken, the first thing he was aware of was the pain, it's what separated his dream world from his unfortunate reality. The closer he got to consciousness, the greater the pain increased. So he knew where ever he was, he didn't want to be waking up. Other senses started to come to him. The hard surface he was laying on, the cold seeping across his back, the pounding, pulsing pain, the confusion that told him he was unsure as to how he came to be in this much pain and why.

It wasn't until he opened his eyes a crack, that he became aware of where the pain stemmed from. There was an aching throb that radiated up his ankle and shin, ending somewhere just short of his knee. All he knew was that he would be glad to have the offending limb separated from his body if it would spare him the agony. As his eyelids raised further, the next pain to be catalogued, flared tremendously, through his head. The spike of pain started at his temple and wrapped around his head, across his forehead and all the way down his face to his jaw. He closed his eyes, trying to forget why he decided opening them in the first place was a good idea.

Shawn decided the best thing to do was to just lay there and try to collect his thoughts enough to formulate some memories.

'Okay, well, I'm in pain so I must have gotten hurt, check.'

How, he wasn't sure and how much could wait for later.

Next, from the brief flash he had seen when he opened his eyes, he knew that he was inside; a house it seemed, white walls and wooden floors. He slid his fingers tentatively across the ground, yep, wood floors.

'Alright, but how did I get here?'

He couldn't remember and this alarmed Shawn because he knew how flawless his memory was and the fact that he couldn't remember what happened, 5 minutes, 20 minutes? and hour ago? was indeed reason to be concerned.

Damn it, that meant he was going to have to open his eyes again. If this was because of a case, then there was a chance that someone had done this to him and that they were still around to do more damage. This thought was enough for Shawn to grit his teeth and open his eyes again to the too-bright world.

Eyes open, brain screaming, Shawn took stock of his surroundings, trying not to move his head at all. Okay, a brown box to  
the left of his head, brown wooden floor, white walls in what seemed to be a hallway, narrow stairs in front of him, a hideous  
picture on the wall, a closed door further down the hall, and...wait those brown snowmen in that hideous picture seemed familiar somehow. He couldn't bring the picture into focus no matter how hard he tried and it just made his head pound with the effort. In fact, the pain was getting worse and with the escalating pain, his stomach began protesting in earnest.

Up until now, it hadn't been one of the problems he was focused on, seeing as how the blinding pain was first in line. But now the nausea was rising up, leaving him with flashes of heat, then cold as his head spun. He moved his hand to grip the material at the side of his leg and it bumped something. He squinted his eyes open and closed his hand around the strange object, but his nausea won at that point and Shawn desperately tried to roll over so that he wouldn't choke on his own vomit. The sudden movement jerked his leg and caused him to choke on a wet cry, which in turn, caused a flare of pain to tear across his head. He puked violently, the convulsions of his stomach sending pain ricocheting across his entire body. It spread out from his head and down the side of his face, echoed across his throbbing shoulder and bruised ribs, pulled across his aching hip and stabbed in his right leg. He couldn't even cry out, he could only lay there as his stomach continued contracting and sending vomit all of the floor, his shoulder and down his chin, as tears dripped out of his eyes.

The crescendo of pain and puking was enough to send him back to La-la land.

* * *

When Shawn next awoke, he became aware of two things. First, Gus had just thrown up near by if the smell was anything to go by and two, that must have been some wild night in Mexico if the pain was anything to go by. He had what felt like the worst hangover headache ever and it felt like that dancing senorita had cha-cha-cha'ed all over his right leg.

Shawn squinted his eyes open, he was not laying on a sandy beach or in a ditch outside of the Mexican border. If he wasn't mistaken, he was in his dad's house. Guess that ruled out a weekend bender in Mexico.

From the amount of pain he was in, Shawn wouldn't be surprised to see that his dad had finally shot him in the leg like he had been threatening to do since he was 6 and flushed his dad's badge down the toilet. Again.

Shawn moved his hand to bring it up to his throbbing temple, but encountered something lying next to him that was hard and felt like it was made out of plastic and marble. Curious, he brought it up to his face, dismayed to see his hand trembling and his arm feeling weak. He squinted to bring the shiny, golden thing into focus. His brow wrinkled and he blinked his eyes, but the damn thing still remained blurry.

Okay, well, he could figure this out, he just had to use a different approach. He ran his fingers across the square marble base and felt the top of it. It was a little person, with a golf club? Shawn chuckled a little and opened his eyes again. He peered closer and then he was sure he knew what it was.

It was his miniature golf trophy from when he was 11. He beat Gus out by one stroke and that was only because the windmill got stuck when it was Shawn's turn to hit the ball. Gus always complained bitterly and swore that Shawn had cheated, but Shawn still took home his trophy and then spent the next 3 weeks flaunting it in front of Gus every chance he got.

Shawn sighed, if Gus were here now, he could surely explain what had happened and then describe in detail why it was all Shawn's fault.

The trophy wobbled in his grip, his arms feeling weak, and he let the award tumble out of his hand and onto the floor. Shawn brought his hands closer to look at and noticed the red smears across the trembling digits. That sticky redness had come off of the trophy. Shawn laughed a little at the thought of the golf man bleeding, or maybe he was sweating blood. He quickly stopped and groaned as his giggling made the pain in his head increase and caused his stomach to roll sickly.

He wondered what happened to his head and started to bring his hand to it, but stopped and wiped his hand across his shirt, he didn't want to get blood in his hair, yuck. He brought his shaking hand to his temple like he was going to do his psychic signature move. Shawn giggled again at the thought of Psych-Man having blood in his hair and how that would totally clash with his purple suit. His giggles transmuted into moans though as his head moved from the action. He winced as his fingers brushed along the side of his face and head, and when he pulled his fingers back, he was surprised to find them coated with blood.

'Huh', he thought, 'either I've been playing with the corn syrup again or that damn mini-golf man bashed my head in!' Shawn laughed loudly and rasped aloud, "FORE!"

His laughs died down and he circled his arms around his stomach, the nausea rising in his gut. Shawn started to roll onto his side fully when the pain in his leg that had been nicely resting at a steady throb, suddenly spiked into an excruciating molten pulse of agony. His back arched as the nausea raced up his spine, and burst out of his mouth adding to the puddle of previous vomit.

Shawn lay with his torso twisted onto the side, his legs laying straight out in front of him and his arms up trying to cradle his thrumming head. He couldn't even scream, he could only lay there rocking and shivering, and weakly crying out.

"Gus! Dad! Someone help me please!" He whimpered and let the tears track down his face.

"Please, can someone help me? Dad? Dad where are you?"


	4. Breadcrumb Trail Back to Coherency

The cell phone in Henry's pocket rang disturbing the peaceful sounds of nature. He grumbled as he fished it out of his pants.

"Henry Spencer," he barked into the phone, irritated at the intrusion.

"Mr. Spencer? It's Gus. I'm calling about Shawn."

Henry sighed noisily into the phone. Of course it was about Shawn, there was no other reason that Gus would call him.

"What's he done now? He's supposed to be cleaning the attic out!"

"That's why I was calling. I went by the house because he said he would be there today, but no one answered the door and his cell phone is turned off. I was calling to see if he was with you because he is supposed to come by the office today and help me clean out the refrigerator. It's bio hazardous and I'm not going to clean out the fish and pancake tacos from last month!" Gus complained over the phone, irritated that his best friend was such a childish pain-in-the-ass.

"Well, that just figures doesn't it Guster! He's likely running around avoiding all responsibilities instead of doing what he's supposed to! I have no idea where he is then. But when I find him, I'll be sure to let him know how much of an idiot he is. We were supposed to have dinner tonight, maybe he'll show up then. I'll tell him to give you a call."

"Alright, Mr. Spencer. Thanks." Gus sighed then hung up.

Henry snapped his phone shut and jammed it back into his pocket. Damn kid! It never failed to irk him when Shawn flaked out on him, even though he had come to expect it by now.

When would the kid ever grow up?

Henry shook his head and re-cast his line. He was going to just focus on enjoying his day. He would deal with his way-ward son later.

* * *

Shawn blinked his heavy eyes feeling groggy. Good news, his stomach had stopped trying to purge itself for now. He had fallen asleep after that last batch of agony and when he awoke, he at least recognized where he was. He was still not sure what had happened, but he used his observational skills to piece together what must have happened.

Laying at an awkward angle at the bottom of the attic stairs surrounded by boxes of his junk led him to the conclusion that his dad was playing slave master again and that he must have fallen down the stairs. It's unfortunate that his mini golf trophy would forever lose it's sentimental charm and from now on be known as a tool for bludgeoning.

Bad news was that he was still in pain. After acknowledging the pounding in his head, it had receded to a constant pressure. Which left him able to address the teeth-gritting agony of his leg. As best as he could figure, his ankle or leg or both were broken. He had had his fair share of broken bones in the past, and they always sucked. Shawn couldn't help but think how much harder his visions were going to be to act out with a cast and crutches in the way.

Shawn was tired of lying on the floor and when his thoughts cleared, he was able to think about trying to get help. A moment of clarity earlier had provided him with the answer that he didn't have his phone on him and he hadn't seen it laying in the ground. But when he shut his eyes and tried to mentally walk through the house and figure out where it was, his headache increased and he had to stop pushing himself.

Shawn blinked his heavy eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. What was he supposed to be doing? Oh, right getting help. Which meant finding a phone, which meant moving. Well, this was going to suck. Shawn mentally mustered the strength to move, taking a deep breath, and wincing against the strain in his bruised chest.

He began pulling himself around to the stairs. He turned without sitting up, his head swimming from the movement and his body throbbing. But Shawn was determined to not remain laying there on the floor. He needed to get up and assess his injuries and see how bad it was. He needed to find a phone somewhere.

Shawn pulled himself slowly across the floor using his elbows, until he reached the bottom stair. He needed the leverage of the staircase to raise his body higher. He slowly sat up, the wooziness increasing making him clutch at his head with one hand, while using the other to help pull his torso off the ground. He gagged a few times, but managed a sitting position. He sat there propped against the hateful stairs, breathing unsteadily and pale. He closed his eyes and rested a moment.

He didn't mean to but the headache was increasing more and more and his leg hurt so much. He leaned back and let himself fall asleep where he sat. His brow beaded with sweat, breathing slightly labored, he leaned there, never hearing the pounding at the front door by his best friend and potential savior, Gus.

* * *

Sorry this took so long, but good news is that the next part is nearly ready to go up, so yay! Thanks for all the reviews guys! I really appreciate them and they totally motivate me to write faster!


	5. The Lindy Hop Sucks With One Leg!

Lol, I know, you all are thinking, This is a quick update! Sorry! I had some struggles over some plot bunny demands! Anyways, thanks to all my readers! And a huge super huggy shout out to my Beta SilverLuna!

Oh and anything in these- 'Means thinking'

* * *

Shawn was dreaming of pink elephants in tutu's. They were unfriendly ones who were beating him in the leg with buckets of peanuts, which wasn't fair because his arms were covered in iron and impossible to lift. And the woodpeckers on his head weren't helping either!

'I'm dreaming,' Shawn thought slowly, as the strange images lost their colors. Which meant he needed to wake up. It was so hard to tear himself from Morpheus' vivid hold.

Shawn's ears buzzed; he wanted it to stop. He tried to bring his hand to his head to slap the fly away from it, but instead, his uncoordinated limb smacked him in the nose, making his eyes water and the pain ricochet in his head. Huh, just as well he missed because anything else that got accidentally slapped would have likely made the pain so much worse.

He moved the uncooperative hand back to his lap, but watched it slid down and onto the floor glancing off his blurred thigh. He knew something was wrong, well of course there was, but something other than the head wound and blazing heat in his leg. He still couldn't see straight and now his arms were disobeying every thought.

He gulped down his rising nausea, brought on by the unhealthily large surge of pain in his head and the scary knowledge that something was badly wrong if he couldn't control his arms any better than that.

Shawn knew that he had to get help. No more whining, arguing, complaining, none of it. He didn't even know what time it was but if it was still early morning, then that meant his dad wouldn't be back for a long while.

Shawn was pleased to note that his thoughts weren't quite as painfully muddled as they were before. He sucked in a breath and began using his elbows to ratchet himself up the stairs in order to gain more leverage to try standing. His limbs shaking, he pushed himself up, using his good leg.

He let out a hoarse cry as his leg was jarred. Even through his jeans he could see how swollen the lower portion had become. Sweat collected on his forehead, mixing with the blood and tracking red farther down his face and neck, dampening his collar.

Shawn managed to get himself semi-upright, hunched over, supporting himself with his arms.

His vision blackened and his head spun at the upright position. He choked back a rising nausea that sprung forth; across his blazing cheeks, a cold sweat that beaded on his upper lip. He shifted his leg, and the pain throbbed with menace.

His arms shook, the joints swiftly turning to liquid.

He had to try to move.

'Dad will come, you just have to call,' he told himself, trying to muster up the courage to move his body.

'You can do this, one step that's it.'

Shawn scowled at the stupid cheerleader in his head. It looked like Gus with pom-poms and it annoyed him with its peppy attitude.

Shawn growled and pushed himself completely upright, weight on one leg, his arms held out to balance. Like a child about to take its first step, Shawn tentatively shuffled forward, one hand braced on the railing, gripping it tight, knuckles white, palm sweaty. He was going to have to hop to get there, and damn, this was going to hurt.

He gulped and took a few shallow breaths; he was breathing hard from the exertion of simply standing up. He braced himself and held the rail like a lifeline, then threw himself forward into a hop.

He wavered, moaning in agony as his leg jarred badly. Shawn clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to let the tears escape. He had to do this, he could do this.

He steadied himself and realized he hadn't fallen.

He could do this.

'Just keep thinking about how pissed Dad would be to see I didn't even try', he told himself.

* * *

I had one long chapter but Shawn kept insisting on having more to say, so I split this into two shorter chapters! I hope you don't mind. But the wait shouldn't be so long this way! Enjoy and I love those reviews! :D


	6. This Used To Be A Funhouse, Now It's Ful

This chapter's title is from the artist Pink. I make no claims, it's all hers!

Thank you to SilverLuna and my loyal, patient reviewers!

* * *

Shawn's grip tight, he managed another little hop. The pain was sickening, but Shawn prevailed. He was at the end of his reach, his hold on the banister had to be transferred if he wanted to continue. He slowly pulled his grip away, and he wavered, but was able to keep his balance. His hand quickly found the hallway wall, and he applied the pressure needed to remain upright.

Shawn continued his arduous task of sliding his hand along the wall, then hopping, before taking a brief rest to catch his breath and wipe his sweaty lip.

All this movement was costing him. The more he moved, each step he took, his limbs shook more, the pain in his head and leg growing greater. His vision was doubling, and blurring. The pain increasing expontially with each step. His nausea intensified and pressed achingly against his gut.

He peered down the long, tilting, hallway. He wasn't even sure where he was going. He took another wavering step and stopped, his knees were wobbling, as if he were standing on unsteady ground. It reminded him of a funhouse he went to once. It had a part where you had to make your way across the floor as it tipped and slid and moved up and down. He and Gus had loved playing in it.

This, however, wasn't fun. It was scary.

He felt if he took one step forward, he would fall through the cracks between the wooden boards of the floor, never to be seen again. He blinked his eyes, if only everything wasn't so blurry. And it was dark in the hallway, why was it dark? Was it nighttime? Shawn was shivering; he was confused and scared.

He needed to move. He did another slid-hop, but couldn't help the gasping whines that he released. He slid his hand forward and it hit a door frame. A room, just ahead to his right opened up. His hazy mind churned furiously to figure out what lay beyond the darkened doorway.

He slide-hopped one more time and was able to see in. The gleaming metal of the sink fixtures told him it was the bathroom.

Shawn was relieved to see it. He stumbled forward, leaning heavily against the frame, fumbling for the light switch. He clicked it on; the resulting light stabbed into his brain and next thing he knew, he was throwing himself forward to vomit. The liquid in his stomach was expelled across the floor and onto the edge of the sink.

He gripped the sink, where he had managed to catch himself. He leaned forward and rested his upper chest and arms on the sink. With pale, trembling fingers, he turned the water on and leaned down to drink some. He was so thirsty and the sting in his throat was eased by the cold water. He gulped it down, filling his belly with the cold liquid. It filled his stomach painfully; a cold sweat traveled up his body to his head. He leaned forward and puked again, dislodging all the water he had just drank.

He draped heavily across the porcelein fixture, breath catching in his chest, sweat and tears across his face. He was whimpering with each exhalation. This was torture.

He gathered enough strength to lean forward and take a mouthful of water, swishing the taste out and spitting into the sink. He didn't try to drink anymore. He turned the water off and aimed himself for the toilet. He would be able to sit and rest there and think of his rescue plan.

His arms shook badly as he pushed himself upright, to hop the small distance. He grasped the cheap towel bar in his hand and braced himself to go forward. He threw his body weight forward onto his leg left, and as his heel landed, it slipped, gaining no traction in the slick pool of his previous vomit. He flailed and put his weight onto his arm where it tightly gripped the towel rack.

The metal bent under his hand, the onslaught of his full weight too much as gravity yanked his body towards the floor. Finally, the metal tore itself from the bracing in the wall, and sliced itself across his palm as his body crashed heavily onto the unforgiving tiles of the bathroom floor. The agony burst across his body.  
His legs buckled, and he screamed as his right leg was caught underneath him. His arm and shoulder took the brunt of his weight, and he felt his shoulder erupt with another shock wave of pain. His head was the last to hit; he slid into shock. His body was protecting itself.  
Shawn lay there, semi-conscious, his pupils uneven, flickering under thin, bruised eyelids. His breath hitched unsteadily, his mouth hanging open. Tears tracked unnoticed across his white face. The trembling got worse, his body shaking and shivering, while his mind was lost somewhere inside.

* * *

Henry had thrown down the anchor, and after eating a hearty ham and cheese sandwich with all the fixings, washing it down with a beer, he decided an afternoon nap sounded great. He pulled his hat over his eyes and settled into the boat for a quick snooze in the warm sunshine. He felt wonderfully relaxed as he drifted off to sleep, gently rocked by the boat.

Instincts honed by being a police officer, and more importantly Shawn's father, meant that he woke instantly alert, always aware of any changes around himself, even while he was sleeping. He only got hit by a catapulted waffle once!

So, when Henry felt a shift in the atmosphere, he snapped awake. His eyes scanned the boat, the water, and the sky in order to place the change he felt. As his eyes tracked the sky, he noticed the breeze had gotten cooler and clouds were rolling in, ominous dark heavy rain clouds.

He glanced at his watch. It was 2:30, the storm coming in earlier than the forecast had predicted. Time, then, to head back to shore. Henry pulled the anchor in and started the motor, steering the boat back towards the docks.

As he drove the boat back, Henry kept an eye on the swiftly approaching clouds that were headed his way. The storm had already kicked up the current and was roughening the seas. Henry had to slow down, or risk losing control in the darkening waves.

Seeing as how his fishing excursion was going to be cut short, Henry figured he could go to the store and pick up some things for the dinner tonight, even though he wasn't sure his son would even bother showing up. But if Gus got invited along, then he needed to get some dessert. Maybe peach pie and some corn and Shawn would surely throw a fit if there was no pineapple waiting for him.

Henry did truly enjoy having the boys over and being able to cook for them. It made him feel closer to his son when they could sit around eating dinner and discussing cases or detective work, or even just talked about old 80's tv cop shows.

Henry was pleased to see the relationship with his son finally starting to mend after all these years.

Henry was pulled from his thoughts as he felt a cold rain drop hit the top of his head. He was still nearly 15 miles off shore and the storm was moving in fast. Henry grabbed his hat and slapped it onto his head, and buckled his life-jacket on over his shirt. The way this storm looked, he was taking no chances. He buckled down and concentrated on arriving back safely. He couldn't go any faster, so he would just have to hope to outrun the storm.

He wondered where Shawn was and couldn't help the kernel of worry he always had when he wondered if Shawn was driving his bike in the rain. Henry hated that thing, and he hated worrying, but he couldn't help it. Shawn was his kid, he always would be and so Henry would always worry.


	7. Nightvision Goggles Would Be Helpful

Okay, let me start by saying, yes it's been way too long. Sorry about that, I had alot going on and I got stuck on this chapter also. But it's here and done and I'm leaving for the beach soon, yay! So, please enjoy!

Thank you to my magical Beta SilverLuna!

* * *

Shawn rested his head on the back of his crossed hands. The downward angle made his aching head pound even more. His eyes tiredly closed. As he felt his body sag, he opened his eyes, he couldn't afford any more resting time. He had used so much effort to get this far, he had to keep going. He lifted his head and straightened his arms, resuming his position on his hands and knees and crawled farther along the wall.

He had eventually regained awareness in the bathroom earlier. He was unable to support himself on his legs; he was barely capable of crawling. He wiped his bleeding hand on the towel that had fallen with the towel rack. Then achingly, had pushed himself up to continue his trek to find a phone.

Shawn braced his shoulder against the wall, swallowing a sob. His fall earlier and the past few minutes of agonizing movement had turned his joint into one fiery throb. At this point, there was nothing that wasn't pained.

Shawn continued with his slow pace. He knew there was a room ahead, a darkened doorway at the end of the hall. He couldn't...his head made it hard to think. He wasn't sure what room he was heading towards, but he knew he could get help, if he could only make it there.

He staggered across the threshold, supporting his weight on his elbows and one knee. His right leg, dragging behind him, painfully made contact with every slide and motion across the floor. His sliced palm burned, so he kept it curled into a loose fist. Sweat obscured his already blurred vision.

He paused for breath, but felt dizzy when he attempted to breath deeper; the effort scared him and seemed to only make him dizzier.

He had to find a phone.

He dragged himself over towards the large piece of furniture in the center of the room, a bed. Halfway there he finally recognized his surroundings. Unbidden memories came to him: climbing into that bed when he was little, scared after a dream. Carrying in a tray of breakfast for Father's Day. Running in to wake Mom and Dad on Christmas Day.

He was in his dad's bedroom. Shawn felt a burst of adrenaline propelling him forward to the bedside. There was a phone on the nightstand, he remembered that. He leaned against the bed, braced himself, and reached his hand up to the nightstand, fumbling around with numb fingers.

His breath sped up, his heartrate quickened, 'NO! Where was it?' He frantically slid his hand across the top of the night table, knocking the book, reading glasses, box of tissues and half a glass of water off the top, his frantic fingers not finding the so needed telephone. A sob burst from between Shawn's panicked lips. Then he remembered. Things had been rearranged, the phone was on the other side of the bed. Shawn's hand slid back to him. The pale, shaking digits, wiped at his mouth. His panic had made him dizzy and sick.

His adrenaline and panic sapping his energy, his body sagging and eyes slipping closed without his consent. He tried to fight the heavy fatigue, he shouldn't linger. It wasn't far...just around the other side...his thought were blanking. His rushed breathing was evening out to hitching sleeping breaths, squeezed through his bruised chest. Shawn fell into a restless and pained sleep.

* * *

Henry slammed the door shut, panting, soaked from the rain. He rested against the steering wheel, catching his breath. The trip back in his boat had been harrowing. He was a good driver and had been calm in dealing with the sudden storm, but still visibility had been bad and he was anxious to just make it back quickly and safely.

He had gotten back finally, tied up his boat and raced to his truck, he might has well walked, because he couldn't be more wet. The sky was dark and the thunder roared as the lightening split the sky in half. The world lightened momentarily, then darkened again quickly, making it hard to see as Henry fumbled into the truck.

Henry shivered and stuck the keys in and started the heat. His clothes were plastered to him. He reached into his pocket for his phone and pulled it out. Flipping it open, he noticed he had missed three calls. As he checked the numbers, he hoped it was Shawn calling to confirm for dinner, or even confirm where he was. No, all three calls were from Gus. He frowned. As he set the phone down, it rang, startling him with the shrill musical tone. He flipped it open without looking.

"Hello?" The only thing he heard was lightening crackle down the line. He snapped his phone shut and started the engine.

He pulled out of the parking lot and took off down the highway. He was aware of the slow speed he needed to maintain in order to ensure his own safety but he was annoyed regardless. He just kept going, crawling along, windshield wipers going as fast as they could, while lightening forked the sky and thunder boomed, shaking the loose bolts in the old truck.

* * *

Shawn dragged himself awake, 'wake up wake up, it's time to get help.' A pat-pat-pat softly landed on his hand. It was almost a steady little beat against his fingers. His fingers jerked every time he felt the soft impact. He was reminded of building wet sandcastles as a child. He would gather the muddy sand in his hands and let it drip out, plopping down to form strange spires. They had made fantastical castles with their inconsistent shapes. He wondered vaguely if he looked down, whether he would have one of those sand castles resting on him. But, no he wasn't at the beach. He was...where was he?

If he wasn't at the beach, then why could he hear the crash of waves? The rumbling of the shore was echoing in the distance. He dozed until a large crash jolted him awake. His body jerked painfully, feeling like he had received an electric shock. He moaned, and blinked confusedly. He didn't know where he was. He felt scared, but he wasn't even sure why.

He sniffled and wiped his dripping nose. "Hello?" He called, hoping someone was nearby. He whimpered when he tried to move his leg. It hurt! What had happened to it? Had he fallen out of a tree? No, he was inside. Out of his bed? Was that why it was dark? Had he rolled out of bed while sleeping?

Suddenly lightning flashed and he was able to see for a brief second. He had blood on his hand. He felt another drop land against his palm, joining the other smeared red droplets. He frowned, confused, but his nose didn't hurt. Thunder crashes startled him, his head hurt badly, enough that Shawn was dizzy and felt sick from it hurting. Was he sick? He moved his hand and felt a book, something sticking out of the pages, it felt glossy. He held it up trying to see. When the lightening flashed he saw a photo in his hand. It was his dad and him. They were standing, arms around one another. He frowned at it.

He could no longer see the picture with his eyes, but he could with his head. He was thinking hard when a big, long boom of thunder shook the house. He clapped his hands over his ears. It was so loud! He heard himself yelling after the thunder had ended. "DAD! DAD! DADDDDYYY!" He rocked himself back and forth, hands tight over his ears, screaming.

* * *

"Shawn? What are you doing in my room?"

Shawn looked up, tears rolling down his face; he swiped at them.

"Dad! You came! I was so scared and I got hurt! Look!"

He pointed at his leg, showing his father his hurts. His dad stood in the dark doorway dispassionately looking down on his distressed son.

"Dad? I think I need a doctor. It really hurts!" Still Henry said nothing. He merely frowned at Shawn.

"Dad, please, say something! Will you help me please? My head hurts so much and my leg..." Shawn cried harder, his nausea overwhelmed him and he puked all down his front, staining his clothes. "Dad? Can you get Mom, then? Please?"

Shawn wiped at his chin, then dragged his wet fingers across the stomach of his shirt, the lightening showing the dark smears across the fabric. Thunder followed and then he could hear his father's voice.

"You haven't told me how many hats are in the room."

Shawn looked up confused.

"What? But Dad, I can't see! It's dark and my head hurts. Daddy please," he whispered, the dark and noise scaring him.

Lightening forked across the sky.

"How many hats, Shawn?"

Shawn began sobbing in earnest. "I don't know, I can't see! My leg hurts! It hurts alot!"

His only reply was a rumbled, "How many hats, Shawn?"

Shawn shook his head. He wiped his eyes and looked back up, his dad was gone. He had left him! He had left him hurt and alone!

"No! DAD! Please come back! I'll count the hats, I will! Please don't leave me alone! It hurts!" Shawn screamed after him. He tried to pull himself up, but couldn't manage, his head made everything spin and he was unsure of which way to go. He crawled towards a door. He kept calling for his dad. He wouldn't leave him, would he?

Shawn pulled the door open, it was so dark.

"Dad, are you there? Please, I'll count the hats, I'll do what you want, just please help me!" He went through the doorway. It was so dark, he stumbled over something and screamed in terror. What was it, what was touching him in the dark? He rolled onto his side, holding his knees close. He lay there and screamed. His dad wasn't coming back for him, he hadn't done well enough. He didn't pass the test. He just wanted his dad.

"Daddy! Daddy, please! I'm sorry! Come back! Daddy!"

* * *

Your continued support is so appreciated! Thank you!


	8. This Isn't How to Play Hide and Seek!

I apologize for the long absence, but I appreciate your continued support! The long awaited chapter is here! And I do believe it's the longest yet! Please enjoy :D

Special Thanks to SilverLuna for her beta work.

* * *

Henry stepped into the house. It felt so good to come back into the cool shade and comfort of his own home after a long day spent out on the water and in the sun. He was tired from being tense during the nerve wracking boat trip back to the docks, not to mention the white knuckled drive through the rain back to the house. He was dripping wet and just relieved to be home. He put his tackle box, pole, cooler and the fish hamper in the mud room off the side of the kitchen. He had filled the hamper with ice, so the fish would be fine until he was ready to scale and gut them for the grill.

Henry noticed the pointed silence in the house and for some reason felt that it was eerie. He shook his head at his own silly thoughts. He lived alone, and had done so for the past 13 years. There was no reason to expect any noise, and yet he supposed he was hoping to hear evidence of Shawn working. But no, he heard nothing but the hum of the fridge, the rumbling of the thunder and rain falling steadily against the roof.

Henry stepped into the living room, checking to be sure Shawn wasn't merely sleeping and had not bothered to get up when he woke him. On the couch lay the rumpled blanket and pillow that was testament to his son's earlier slumber, but no head was denting the pillow. So, he had gotten up, well at least there was that.

He picked up the blanket and began folding it. He carefully lined up the edges, pressing the blanket into a neat square. He grabbed the pillow in order to return the linens to the hall closet. Henry carefully smoothed the dent in the pillow that was from his son's head. He stood for a moment carefully scanning the room, knowing something was off but not being able to place it.

He turned and kicked something under the coffee table. He sighed, dropped the bedding back onto the couch and knelt down, thinking it was the television remote. His hand skimmed the ground and finally clamped down on the object. He raised it and stared. A cold thrill skittered down his spine. His son's phone was in his hand. The one he had bought him as a Christmas gift in fact.

Henry was frightened at the implication. His son may be an irresponsible idiot at the best of times, but he understood the necessity of having his phone on him at all times. Especially since he was getting involved in more and more dangerous situations. He never left his phone behind.

Henry clicked it on and saw 12 missed calls and 8 voice mails and 24 text messages. Several of those missed calls and 2 of the voice mails were from him. He supposed the majority were from Gus trying to track Shawn down. Henry slipped the phone into his pocket and stood, his pulse was pounding loudly in his ears. He listened and still heard nothing. Henry needed to find Shawn, he needed to find him now!

Okay, first things first, check the house. Inside and out, then, he gulped, then he could call the station for additional resources. Henry swallowed down his rising nervousness. No reason to panic prematurely. He began a methodical search of the downstairs, scanning every room, opening every door. He checked the garage and the porch. If he had to he would come back and search the house perimeter, but for now there was no sign of his son.

After confirming the downstairs was clear, he headed up the staircase. With each step he took, his fear increased. His pulse racing, senses wide open, head dizzy from rapid breaths, he reached the top and stopped. There down the hallway, he saw the bulky outline of some things on the ground at the bottom of the attic stairs. He walked a few steps closer and his hand slid across the wall and flipped the hall light on.

The sudden light threw the scene into clear detail. All his senses converged on one spot. He saw the boxes and junk strewn in a wide path, down the stairs and across the hall. He saw the glitter of trophies, especially noticing the one with blood smeared across it and the fact that it rested next to a puddle of dark blood. His gut clenched and the smell of the other puddle hit his nose, identifying it as vomit that was congealing on his wood floor.

Henry was terrified. All this detritus told him that his son had been here and that he was injured. But there was no sign of Shawn anywhere in the hall. Where was his hurt child?

* * *

Henry shook himself to draw himself away from his shock. He needed to find Shawn, and he couldn't do that if he was panicking. He steeled himself and look a deep breath before moving forward.

He knelt near the tacky, dark blood and the thick, smeared puddle of vomit. It figured Shawn would fall and hurt himself doing something as innocuous as cleaning out the attic. Henry's eyes fell on the trophy. The small golden statue had blood across the base, offering him an instant clue as to its use as a bludgeoning device.

Henry put his detective mind to use and quickly searched the room, noting the position of the boxes and the debris from them, along with the trophy and the mess on the floor. He concluded that Shawn must have fallen carrying the boxes, and the trophy hit him at some point and caused bleeding. The amount of blood suggested a head injury. What other injuries could Shawn have incurred?

Henry worked his way down the hall, catching sight of the wrecked bathroom. Henry saw vomit, slick and smeared across the floor and splattered on the sink. A broken towel bar and a bloody towel lay on the ground. He spent only the necessary seconds searching there; Shawn was not in the bathroom and he felt an increasing urgency to locate his disastrous son.

Back out in the hallway, Henry's sharp eyes caught a partial hand print on the floor; the rust colored outline of a palm and two fingers was a chilling mark left by his missing son. Henry continued his systematic searching, finding his chest tightening with alarm with each pass of an empty room and hallway.

He bypassed the stairs; he had already checked that way and his son hadn't sought help that way because he wasn't down there. Henry had checked. 'Unless he had left the house. Oh god,' he thought, he had to find Shawn. If he had a head injury and was wandering the beach or somewhere. . . . He swallowed down his panic. 'No, no, he could still be here in the house.'

He searched his son's childhood bedroom, not finding any sign of him. It would have made sense to find him in here, it was familiar and it had a phone. But, no Shawn.

The last room to check was his own. Shawn hadn't been in there in years, likely close to 15 years. But Henry pressed on despite his ever increasing worry for his son. He had to check everywhere.

The darkened doorway stood in front of him. It was dark as no lights had been turned on in the house despite the dark of the storm raging against the eaves. Henry fumbled for the light switch, already noting that no movement came from the room. He blinked a few times in the sudden light, and quickly began drawing conclusions based on the scene painted in front of him.

The bedside table had been messily cleared, the objects scattered around the floor. He frowned, annoyed, seeing the spilled water, and the damp photograph and book. As he scanned the floor, a dark smudge on the door frame of his closet caught his eye. The door was open a crack. He raced over, and threw the door open. The sight drove him to his knees, hitting hard enough that he would regret it in the morning. But for now, he took no notice, solely focused on what he saw in his closet.

Henry's breath was shaky as he called his son's name. "Shawn?"

His son was huddled in the tiny closet, awkwardly curled, hiding his face in his arms. Henry felt his heart sinking. There was no reason why Shawn should be in the closet.

"Shawn," Henry called to him, louder. He still got no response, other than seeing the quiver along Shawn's limbs increase.

"Shawn?" Henry called again while he fished in his pocket, pulling out his son's phone, he began dialing, 9-1-1 as he leaned in and laid his arm on Shawn's shoulder to get his attention. At the touch, Shawn cowered back, scaring Henry, making his heart jump. He fumbled and dropped the phone before he could finish dialing.

Frustrated, Henry yelled at Shawn.

"Shawn Michael Spencer! Look at me!" Fear drove Shawn's head up and Henry watched in dismay as his eyes tracked past his face several times before focusing in on him. Henry reached for Shawn's battered face, but paused as his son lurched back. Then Henry heard something he hadn't heard in nearly 25 years.

"Daddy?" Shawn's voice was small and rough as he whispered.

Henry swallowed hard. Dear God, his son need help badly. Henry was struggling to respond, when Shawn's next words stopped all his thought process, making his heart freeze, feeling like ice was flowing through his veins.

"Daddy, where were you? Why wouldn't you help me? I was looking for you."

"I'm here now, Shawn. Just calm down." He watched as Shawn began to struggle forward out of the closet. His son began to raise himself up, then suddenly cried out. He clutched his head and collapsed.

"Shawn? Shawn!" Henry carefully turned Shawn over onto his back, laying him flat. His eyes were closed and his face extremely pale under the dark blood. He must have passed out. Henry snatched up the dropped phone and immediately called for an ambulance to come pick his son up. Instead of staying on the line, he assured them he wouldn't move him, and would watch his breathing closely. It would have made no difference to continue to talk to them, it wouldn't make them get there any faster.

Henry returned his focus on his son. He pulled a shoe out from under Shawn's back then leaned in to check his head wound.

The flow of blood had slowed or nearly stopped but heads bleed a lot, the evidence in the sticky redness that covered the side of his face, his neck and was matted in half of his hair. Henry grabbed a t-shirt from the floor and gently tried to clean up some of the blood. As he slid the shirt around Shawn's ear, his eyes caught sight of a bruise that lined up behind it.

"Shit, kid, shit!" Henry's hands shook as he gently traced the shell of his son's ear. The bruise was something he had seen before as a cop, it was in the crime scene photos for a child abuse case. It was called a Battle's sign and was an indicator of a skull fracture. Henry was heartbroken to see it on his son and couldn't help the comparison to the young abuse victim from 20 years ago.

"Damn it, Shawn, you can never do things simply can you?" His harsh words were in direct contradiction to his gentle fingers as he stroked his son's forehead and hair, carefully avoiding the bruised lump on the side of his forehead and the bloody skin around his temple.

"Hurry up, dammit, hurry up," he begged to the silent room, praying the ambulance would get there faster. He wanted to cradle Shawn in his arms, like he used to when he was a child, but didn't dare move him for fear of complicating the severe head injury. Instead he ran his hands gently across the unhurt parts of his boy's body, trying to calm himself and comfort his unconscious son.

He rubbed his hand along Shawn's brow and felt a tiny ridge at his hairline. His thumb encountered the small scar that was from the misadventure on his fishing boat when Shawn was a teenager; the one he still felt guilty over. He never had apologized for sending his son headlong into the side of the boat, but he had felt bad for causing his son pain.

Kind of like how he felt now, knowing his son had been hurt and looking for him and he hadn't been there.

He sat there on the floor of his bedroom, Shawn lying limply by his side, and Henry kept running his finger along the raised line of the scar, and waiting anxiously for help to arrive.

* * *

Thank you for your patience in waiting for this chapter to come out! Since I've neglected to respond to my recent reviews, I'd like to give a special thank you to the following reviewers that have really lifted my spirits!

Taura Callisto, the-vampire-act, kikaria, Tonee Alto, parallelpandora, sweet1one, Jimmy Candlestick, Farrahmack, jellybean367, bats212, A maze thing, Sumomo4tw, NarutoNineTails, sjr, YaoiFan87, Lies-and-Truth

And my frequent reviewers that I always look forward to:  
Silverluna, Cutiepie2191, SpookyClaire, pdljmpr6, hup123hup123slapslap


	9. Waiting for Guffman, Waiting to Exhale

Thank you to my hard-working Beta SilverLuna.

And Ghostbusters and Alf aren't mine, but they are awesome. Also, not mine, the movies Waiting for Guffman, and Waiting to Exhale.

Thank you for your patience in the long delay regarding this chapter. It was not intentional and hopefully won't happen again. I do fully intend on completing this story no matter how many delays I have. Thank you for your kind words and reviews!

* * *

Henry sat holding his head in hands. He was tired, his body stiff and pained. He was also hungry, but couldn't stand the thought of eating anything right now.

He wished he was still sitting out on his boat, feeling peaceful and warmed by sunshine, a thick sandwich in his hand. His stomach lurched thinking of earlier. Maybe if he hadn't fallen asleep or sat out in his boat all day, but instead had come home, then maybe Shawn would be asleep on the couch, sleeping late into the afternoon then waking up and asking for pancakes. Henry would have complained, made him get up and help him work in the yard or helped him clean out the attic, but he would have made him a plate of chocolate chip pancakes first. Then they could have sorted stuff before carrying away the boxes to get rid of. He was still sure Shawn had intended to put the boxes in the garage instead of actually clearing them out or organizing the contents.

Henry shifted again in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room, and winced as it pulled his back. Sitting on the floor, hunched over his bloody, unconscious son earlier, had not done his back any favors. At the time, as he had mopped the blood off Shawn's pale face, and rested his hand on his chest, making sure he kept breathing steadily, Henry hadn't felt his back cramping. It wasn't until he was sitting here that he realized. He huffed and stood up to stretch, wincing at the spasm on the left side.

He saw the nurse at the Emergency Room desk look up and watch him for a moment before a ringing phone pulled her attention away. Henry looked out the windows, it was dark beyond them and as he stood near they showed only his reflection against a black background. He saw the bags under his eyes, but then a dark stain against his cheekbone caught his attention. His fingers trembled minutely as he touched it. He dropped his hand and turned towards the desk.

"Where is your restroom?" he asked, his voice rough. The nurse politely pointed the way and gave him directions.

He locked the door behind himself and stared in the mirror, before wetting a paper towel. He brought it up and rubbed the dried blood off his face.

_Shawn lay completely still, unlike his usual, constantly moving body. Even in sleep he would shuffle around. He wasn't allowed to sleep in his parents' bed after a nightmare, because Shawn would kick and roll, keeping both him and Madeleine awake and exhausted come morning._

_Henry remembered when Shawn was around six and Maddie had left for the weekend, doing some profiling seminar in Oregon. Shawn had awoken at two am, screaming. Henry had jolted out of bed, fumbling to grab his gun and racing into his son's bedroom. No one was in there aside from Shawn who was kicking and screaming, twisted in his covers. Henry set his gun atop the dresser, safety clicked on, then knelt at the side of the bed. He was leaning forward to grasp Shawn's shoulder to shake him awake, when Shawn let out a yell. 'DADDY, NO!' Henry sat his son up, shaking him, 'Shawn, wake up, I'm here!' His eyes had snapped open and he threw himself at Henry, sobbing._

_Henry had cradled him, soothing him, rubbing his back. 'What did you dream, son?' Shawn had been unable to answer, clinging desperately as he cried. Henry hadn't seen this kind of reaction in a while since Shawn had stopped having night terrors. Finally, Shawn had pulled back, wiping snot onto his pajama sleeve, 'I dreamed you were gone, and never coming back.' Henry had gathered his son, and assured him that wouldn't happen._

_He finally brought Shawn into his own bed for the rest of the night. Shawn had been clingy, never revealing exactly what he had dreamed, as he had pressed close to Henry that night. It was the only time since Shawn was a toddler that Henry hadn't minded having him in his bed. He had wiped the tears from his cheeks and the hair back from his face and lay watching him sleep peacefully._

_As Henry did the same thing, 25 years later, wiping tear tracks off his son's cheek, and pushing his sweaty hair away from his face. Only this time instead of being able to put him in the bed and hold him and comfort him, and watch him sleep, he was forced to hold his neck still, and clean off his blood and regulate his breathing as he lay so still. Henry wiped a tear from his own face, smearing some of Shawn's blood against his cheek._

Now, hours later in the hospital, he cleaned the spot of blood off. He turned the hot water on, and began scrubbing his hands, again. Scrubbing them over and over, and under his nails trying to get all the blood off. His son's blood.

* * *

Henry shifted in his chair, agitated at the forced separation from his son. He was back in the waiting room, every single second the slowest he had ever experienced. He wanted, no, he NEEDED to know what was happening. He wasn't sure if he son was lying there paralyzed from a broken neck or dying from a traumatic brain injury. He gulped, he had seen the confusion in the hazel eyes and heard the child-like speech of his thirty year old son as he barely recognized his own father.

He became inexplicably angry as he thought of Shawn. How he had gotten so badly hurt merely falling down the stairs? It was absurd, ridiculous and utterly stupid! He should have walked away with a sprained ankle and later he and Henry would have laughed it off over steaks and beer. But, no, his irresponsible, idiotic son had to damn near give himself brain damage! Henry sighed and checked the time. He had called Gus about ten minutes ago. He hadn't even thought of it until he had been steered towards a chair that was obviously designed to inflict pain, not ease it, and told to wait to hear how his son was doing. He had sat in the waiting room, staring blankly at the doors the gurney had disappeared behind. He had suddenly remembered Gus then and pulled the phone from his pocket and called him. Gus had answered and immediately begun yelling, chastising Shawn until Henry interrupted informing him Shawn had hurt himself and was in the hospital. Gus had assured him he would be there as soon as he was able.

Henry leaned his head back and let out a sigh, blocking out the sounds of the other people waiting. The baby crying in the arms of a tired mother; the concerned parents soothing a young boy with an icepack on his forehead to ease a fever; the teenager huddled with her friend, tiredly shivering. A young man with a bloody towel to his face; a couple sitting together, the wife fussing over her husband's swollen wrist; a older woman waiting alone, dozing in a wheelchair in the corner. A few people anxiously were waiting for news on their loved ones, a few families huddled together drawing strength and comfort from their companions, a few people were waiting alone, sick or in pain; scared. Henry didn't care about any of them. He almost burst out laughing as he counted the hats, so that he could be prepared to quiz Shawn.

The wail of approaching sirens made people shift and begin glancing towards the ambulance bay in curiosity. The ambulance slid in and there was an immediate bustle of activity, doctors and nurses running about, technicians wheeling a gurney in, a glimpse of a moaning person who was so covered in blood and equipment the sex and age was unrecognizable. Everyone's attention was drawn to the morbid sight. A hysterical woman quickly followed, screaming a name as the nurse set to getting her seated with a sheaf of papers to complete. Henry looked down and saw a similar set in his lap, still mostly uncompleted. Henry felt sympathy as the woman cried, staring at the swinging doors that held the fate of the sick and injured behind them. He looked down at the uncompleted paperwork and saw the red and white lights swirling across his lap.

He closed his eyes.

_The lights shifted to the familiar red and blue behind his eyelids as his police cruiser raced up to the friendly house. Flower baskets hung cheerily from the porch. A bike tipped against the garage, a football laying in the grass. The warm lights spilled onto the lawn, making the home look warm and inviting. Henry raced up the driveway, his partner keeping close, their hands on their service weapons. Henry motioned to Ramirez to knock. He cautiously tried to glance through a side window. The door cracked open, a little girl was crying, clutching a stuffed doll. Her wide eyes looked up at the two policemen on her doorstep. As Ramirez crouched down to speak to her, a crash sounded from inside the house, a scream accompanying it. Henry pulled his weapon and charged in, his partner following, slamming the door shut and gently pushing the girl to the side._

_As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, the home's owners, the parents, were engaged in a fist fight, the husband knocking his wife onto the floor, considering the woman's bruises and black eye, not for the first time. Henry felt a wave of sick revolt in his stomach. "Freeze, SBPD!" At the request the man had become enraged and thrown a plate, catching Ramirez in the shoulder as he tried to dodge the propelled ceramic. Henry charged forward, his weapon pointed accordingly. "Down on the ground, drop to your knees! Hands on your head!" They had subdued the raving husband, called for backup and an ambulance._

_After, they had bundled the abusive husband into the back of the patrol car and gone to the aid of the wife, Henry had crouched down, assuring her she and her daughter were safe, it was then he discerned her cries of distress were in regards to her son. They had found him in his bedroom, badly beaten. Sirens screamed as backup and medics arrived. Ramirez going out to direct them, while Henry stayed with the boy._

_He was about 13, a few years older than his own son. He could make out the underlying bruises. He sat with him, trying to soothe his moans of pain. "It's okay, buddy. We're gonna help you, it will be all right." Henry couldn't help but think of his son who was probably asleep in his bed, wrapped in his Ghostbusters sheets, clutching his stuffed Alf. But lying there, unharmed, knowing his father would never hit him, ever. The boy opened his eyes and stared at Henry. "Lizzy OK?" Henry frowned, "Is that your sister?" Seeing the small nod, Henry smiled at the boy, "She's fine. She's with your mom right now. You are all going to be fine." But they hadn't been._

_Henry had gone to the hospital to pick up the report the next morning to file the medicals in with the case paperwork. The doctor had run down a list of injuries on both the boy and his mother. Henry had gone in to get the kid's statement and had seen his head turned away, a dark bruise behind his ear. The doctor had followed him in and seen where Henry was staring. "Battle's Sign we call it. It indicates his skull fracture." The doctor had told him in a low voice. Henry was sickened that a father could beat his own son hard enough to break his skull. "Will he be all right?"_

Gus reached out and touched Mr. Spencer's shoulder, thinking he was sleeping, but as his eyes flew open seconds later, full of sadness and worry, he knew he hadn't been. "Mr. Spencer."

"Gus," Henry sighed. He straightened up and moved his hat from the seat next to him, indicating Gus to sit down. He felt a bit of relief at having someone here for support and someone to empathize with. Someone who had also worried for the past 25 years over the same person.

"Have you heard how . . . " Henry cut Gus off before he could finish asking the question.

"No, no news. I guess they are still . . . working on him or something." In his head, Henry knew that these things took time. But he was so anxious to get some news, to be with his son, to see him sit up and grin at him, to hear he was going to be fine.

Gus settled into the chair next to him. He looked at Mr. Spencer concerned. "What happened? Where was he? Where did you find him? How bad was he hurt?" He rattled off questions until Henry wearily held up a hand.

"Gus, please." Henry sighed. "Shawn apparently fell down the attic steps, while carrying some boxes. I found him in the house." Henry left out the part where he found him curled in his closet, unresponsive. "He was . . . he was hurt pretty bad. Hit his head. Maybe broke his leg. I don't know how he managed."

Gus gulped and paled. "Oh, my God! Oh, my God, I was there! I stopped by the house. I was . . . I was looking for him, he . . . no one answered the door. Oh God, he was there and hurt the whole time?!" Gus felt sick with guilt and worry. His hands clenched into fists.

Henry sighed and patted Gus' arm. "Stop feeling guilty. There's no way you could have known. It's over and done with. No wishing will make us go back in time and be there to help him. We're here now, and . . . " Henry brushed the knees of his pants with his palm to cover their nervous quivering. "Gus, he'll be fine."

Gus nodded in agreement, "Right, it's Shawn. He's always fine." Gus looked around, feeling his stomach churn when he was the bloody towel laid on some guy's face. He dropped his eyes to the unfinished form Mr. Spencer had. He reached over and grabbed the clipboard. "Here, let me help fill these out."

And Henry let him, knowing it made Gus feel better, more useful. The sat in silence after that, only snapping their heads up at the squeak of nurses' shoes, every time praying for an update on Shawn, only to be disappointed.

* * *

A buzzing ringtone sounded from Henry's pants. It took him a few moments to identify the sound before frowning and pulling Shawn's vibrating phone out of his pocket. He pressed the button to answer. "Hello," he gruffly answered.

"Um, hello . . . is, is Shawn there?" a female voice asked hesitantly.

"No, this is his father." Gus raised his eyebrow as he listened. He wasn't sure at all that Shawn would appreciate his father scaring off a potential female companion by answering his phone.

"Mr. Spencer? Oh, this is Detective Juliet O'Hara. I work with Shawn. I was calling to speak with him. Is he there?" Juliet asked, confused as to why Shawn's dad would be answering his phone.

Henry sighed. He had heard quite a lot about this particular detective. His son spoke of her often, and even Gus and Lassiter had spoken fondly of her. The respect from her stern partner spoke volumes about her as part of the force.

"No, I'm afraid he's not available. He. . . he fell and hurt himself." Henry hesitated to continue. He glanced at Gus as he heard the gasp echo over the line.

"Is he all right?!" Juliet asked, concern coloring her tone, wondering what Shawn had done to himself.

Henry shook his head, "We're waiting to find out. If it's about a case, Gus is here. You can speak to him." Gus frowned hearing that, it must be someone from the department then.

"It's not about . . . yes, please," Juliet told Mr. Spencer. She hadn't called for anything important. Some small thing she wanted to clarify with Shawn regarding their last case as she went over the paperwork but she was deeply concerned to hear Shawn had hurt himself. As the phone passed hands, she figured they must be at a doctor's or hospital. "Gus? What happened?" she asked as soon as Gus came on.

"Jules," Gus sighed into the phone. He stood up and walked out into an adjoining hall of the hospital to continue the conversation. He explain what he knew, which wasn't much, how Shawn was doing, which he didn't know, and he reassured her he would call her as soon as they had an update on his condition. Juliet agreed to let the Chief and Lassiter know that Shawn was injured and hung up with Gus, leaving Gus to heave a sigh and head back to the waiting room chairs and Mr. Spencer.

He handed the phone back to Mr. Spencer. "I told her we'd let them at the station know how Shawn was when we found out. He has a lot of friends down there."

Henry nodded. Shawn always made friends wherever he went. He was suddenly aware of the nurse walking their way and brought his head up, as if willing her to come to them. He stared at her intently, holding his breath as she came ever closer until suddenly she was standing in front of them.

She stopped and paused, taking in the breathless, hopeful, anxious faces looking up at her. "Are you hear with Mr. Shawn Spencer?" At their quick nods she pointed to the clipboard. "Are you finished filling out his admitting paperwork?"

Gus felt deflated as he handed the papers to her. She quickly flicked through them, ignoring Mr. Spencer's laser like stare. Henry felt anger building, he was afraid he was going to snap or explode. He held his breath, waiting for the hammer to fall, words like, "I'm sorry to tell you" or "We did everything we could." At least it wasn't a doctor.

"He's my son! Tell us how he is!" Henry insisted. The nurse nodded then met their eyes again. She glanced at Gus, "And you are?"

"His brother!" Henry provided instantly, "Adopted." He glared daring her to deny that statement. The nurse nodded and glanced at the paperwork and back at the both of them.

"I think it would be best if you came with me." She blinked as they both sprang up to their feet anxious. She offered them a small smile. "Please follow me."


End file.
